Comings and Goings on Mead Street

Friday morning on Mead Street began auspiciously enough, with Andrew and Brad emerging from their houses at the same moment, both headed for work in Bellevue.

"Can I get a ride with you?" asked Brad (Bryan's brother, who moved in across the street this summer).

"Sure, hop in!" said Andrew. And off they went.

Half an hour later the rest of the Kidde Woodward family were stumbling around upstairs, groggily feeling around in our sock drawers, when Bryan pounded on the side door. This is not an unusual occurrence, actually; often somebody's shoes or coat or homework turns up missing at one house and has to be repatriated in the middle of the frantic early morning rush. But this time was a little different.

"We're having a bit of an emergency," Bryan announced, when one of us finally had enough clothes on to go downstairs and let him in. Apparently after what was already a fairly ghastly morning (the details of which we will spare you), the Streets had discovered that neither of their cars would start. Bryan and the kids could manage without a vehicle, but Aly had to be in Redmond by 9, and time was running out.

I reviewed the day's schedule in my head: I had been planning a mad dash to the co-op, so I could make Simon a sack lunch to take on his class field trip; other than that I figured I could get by on public transportation.

"Aly can take my car." I said. "But do you guys have any sandwich bread?" So the trade was arranged: car key for bread loaf. Bryan and I shook hands, and Aly hit the road. Josie made Simon's lunch, I threw my laptop and some bus-reading into my backpack, and we hoofed it to school, arriving just a little bit late(r than usual).

Bryan had already bundled his kids off to the school bus stop at the end of the block, and they were safely on their way. He hauled his bike out into the the front yard, preparing for an icy ride to school. Just then, the neighbor who lives on the corner came panting down the sidewalk carrying a violin.

"Some kids were standing at the bus stop a little while ago, and when the bus pulled away, I saw this sitting there. Aren't you a teacher? Can you get this back to the right school somehow?"

"Some kids?" Bryan said, "Those were my kids! And that's Menna's violin!"

Mike handed it over, shaking his head. "Those are your kids? Even that big tall one? They sure have grown up! It seems like she was five just last summer!"

So Bryan crammed Menna's violin into his backpack and pedaled off to work.

In the afternoon the serendipity continued. Josie had graciously agreed to do me and Craig the enormous favor of walking Simon, Sarita, and Martha home from school and keeping them from killing one another until the first adult could arrive. This she did, with the help of Irene, who even walked to the co-op to buy more chips when the nachos ran out. There she ran into Lauren, who gave her a ride back to the house and hung out for the remainder of the afternoon.

By the time I arrived home (after a lovely walk from the train station, up over Hitt's Hill in the dark) Lauren was gone, Craig had picked up his girls, and Bryan and Andrew had started off the weekend with a couple of beers. The six remaining children were variously occupied with chess games, unloaded capguns, and/or "Clueless" on Netflix. I grabbed a Mike's Hard Lemonade out of the fridge and inquired casually about dinner plans, hoping someone had made some.

"I've got stuff for burritos," said Bryan. "And I was going to make some fresh salsa. Want to join forces?"

So when Aly got home from her Microsoft sojourn, the ten of us sat down for a delicious, boisterous meal. Irene started off the High Spot reports, during which many of the above details were revealed. Our favorite story came from Bronwen, however. "I don't know about a High Spot," she began. "But I can tell you about a Confusing Spot I had."

Apparently once last month Ioan fell asleep on the bus on the way home from school, and had to be special delivered back to his house when he was discovered conked out at the end of the route. So the driver has gotten into the habit of shouting out his name when she gets to his stop. Today Bronwen and Menna were on the bus with him, of course, and so when the driver yelled, "Street!" Bronwen looked up and said, "Yes?"

"You do that again, I'll write you up!" the driver spat out furiously.

"What?" Bronwen was confounded.

"Come up here and talk to me," said the driver, with murder in her voice. The three Street children trooped up to the front of the bus together. "I know your father and he'd be real disappointed in you, pretending to be your brother like that." (Here we all looked at Bryan, who attempted to look real disappointed in his daughter, without success.)

"Um," Bronwen stammered, beginning to comprehend her alleged crime.

"What you're going to do right now, is you're going to apologize to your brother. And to me."

"Sorry, Ioan," said Bronwen, calculating that the path of least resistance might also afford the quickest escape.

"What?" said Ioan, who really had no idea what was going on at all.

When Bronwen finished her tale -- raising a few questions about the mental stability of the people to whom we entrust our children on a daily basis -- she had to repeat it all over again for the benefit of a few listeners who had been insufficiently attentive the first time. After which Irene declared, "That story was even funnier the second time!"

This was true: some stellar details had emerged in Version Two. But the real miracle was how much more enjoyable all of our stories were when we told them around the dinner table, than when we lived through them the first time.